


kado-ka

by waldkind



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (Nothing graphic though), (the Japanese flower language), Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, TW: Blood, hanakotoba, tw: discussions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 11:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldkind/pseuds/waldkind
Summary: Keiji knows that in every love lurks loss.After his mother's death, he struggles to love again. Fortunately, it is difficult not to love Bokuto.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	kado-ka

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to beta-reader Teddy for her insightful and kind feedback! (You can find her @TeddyKrueger here on ao3.)

**kado-ka**  
(noun, japanese)

_Students and teachers of Ikebana, the Japanese art of flower arrangement._  
_Ikebana is one expression of Wabi-Sabi, an aesthetic concept that finds beauty in impermanence._

* * *

The spiker’s form was outlined by the gym lights, beaming like a star. He soared more than he jumped, and Keiji almost expected to see wings unfold on his broad back.   
Later, Keiji found his sun-bright smile again, shining off a page of “Volleyball Monthly.”   
“From Fukurodani Academy, Bokuto Koutarou.” Keiji whispered his name like a delightful secret. In that moment, he had a strange, insistent sense of foreboding: a seed had been planted, about to sprout, to grow into something magnificent but terrifying.   
“Have you found what you were looking for?”, his classmate, who had borrowed him the magazine, asked.  
A cautious smile slowly appeared on Keiji's face, like a photograph's negatives developing, the opposite of his default expression. His classmate frowned.  
“I think I just might have,” Keiji said.

  
_The petals are soft and a little waxen to the touch. “Okaa-san, what does this one mean?”_  
_Keiji’s mother crouches down next to him. “Red roses symbolize being in love.”_  
_Keiji reaches out, lured by the sweet fragrance._  
_“The thorns-!”_  
_“Ouch.” The blood on his fingertip is ruby red, like the rose’s blossom. “Isn’t love supposed to be happy?”_  
_His mother smiles, perhaps a bit sad. “Oh, Keiji,” she sighs, and hugs him, “not always.”_

The petals danced on the breeze. Ueno Park was a sight to behold during this time.   
Bokuto ran ahead, arms raised to the sky as if he wanted to reach the sun with his fingertips.   
“He is like a hyperactive dog off the leash,” Konoha commented, and Komi cackled.   
“Akaashi!” Bokuto turned around. “What do cherry blossoms mean?”  
“Kindness. Gentleness. Transience of life,” Keiji said. He stopped, letting their teammates get ahead.   
“They only last about a week. A reminder of our mortality. All things end.” Keiji spoke softly, only to Bokuto now.   
Bokuto’s face darkened. Keiji felt a pang of regret; he didn’t want to keep Bokuto from enjoying the cherry blossoms. But-  
‘I will live until I am 130 years old.’ What if not?   
“Doesn’t it make you sad? Seeing the petals fall, spring after spring," Keiji said.  
Bokuto tilted his head, thoughtful. “I don’t know. They are here now, aren’t they?”  
Keiji shivered.   
Bokuto blinked. “Akaashi? Are you okay?”   
Keiji’s throat closed up, and he could only silently shake his head.  
The others had already spread a blanket on the ground, caught up in conversation. Only Washio looked at Keiji with a worried frown.  
Keiji disappeared behind a cherry tree, slumping against its trunk, and closed his eyes. Darkness was lit up by a collage of memories, memories from _before_ : his father’s laughter. Her long-fingered hands arranging bluebells, _gratitude_. Him, pushing Keiji on a swing towards the cloudless sky. Her soft voice as she answered Keiji’s curious questions. Her, surrounded by overgrown pots of ivy and lush wisteria hanging from the shelves in her flower shop. Keiji’s mother, _his mother_. One image lingered: a page in his book on Hanakotoba on Fritillaria camschatcensis’ twofold meaning:

  
_Love,_  
_Curse._

  
When Keiji opened his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with Bokuto. They were silent, but Bokuto’s expression raised its voice anyway: the tenderness befuddled Keiji.   
“Sakura,” Keiji finally said, “my mother. She passed away two years ago.”  
“That’s horrible, Akaashi. I’m sorry.” Bokuto stepped closer, and took Keiji’s hand where his fingers had been painfully digging into the bark. Bokuto’s hands were rough with calluses from spiking (mostly Keiji’s tosses, recently), his palms wide but fingers shorter than Keiji’s.   
When Keiji looked up, Bokuto’s gaze was there to meet him. Keiji counted shades of gold in his eyes, each nuance a treasure. He wanted to fall into Bokuto’s arms, but that desire was foolish. Instead, he ripped his hand from Bokuto’s gentle touch.   
“Akaashi?”, Bokuto called out again, beckoning him towards the light. Keiji couldn’t bear looking at him. It was so easy, too easy-  
in a swift motion, Keiji picked up is school bag, and left.   
Bokuto didn’t follow. 

  
_The sunrise sky doesn’t make a show, all pale colors, not unlike hospital gowns._  
_They put the potted daisy in the car._ Faith _._  
_His father grips the steering wheel so tightly, as if he wants to crush it in his grip._  
_Keiji reaches from the passenger seat, putting his hands on his father’s._  
_He takes an audible breath before starting the car._  
_Keiji doesn’t dare to think he’s tired of this sadness that blanketed their lives since his mother had fallen ill, hiding them from light._  
_The smell of disinfectant stings Keiji’s nose. He follows in his father’s shadow. A nurse tells Keiji to sit down, talks to his father in a hushed voice. The pot falls from his father’s hands, shattering, breaking the quiet. Among the soil on the ground are the daisies, crushed beneath his father’s heel as he rushes to the room where his mother lays. Keiji wants to follow, don’t go, but the nurse doesn’t let him._  
_He crouches down, his steady hands shaking, and picks up the shards. Bloody hands cup the remnants of the crumpled daisies, holding them to his chest._  
_His father emerges in the doorway- every line on his face deepened by something terrible._  
_“No,” Keiji says, voice toneless._  
_His mother died on a pastel spring morning in early April._

_(Later, Keiji throws the daisies in a trash bin next to the parking lot. Small, delicate flowers- their carpels look like little suns in the dark plastic bag._  
_What use was it to keep them, replant them in a new pot? They’d wilt._  
_Still, he hesitates._  
_“Keiji,” his father says, and they leave.)_

>   
>  **“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”**  
>  \- John Steinbeck

Keiji found Bokuto during their lunch break. “May I?”  
“Akaashi!” Bokuto swiveled around to stare at him. Keiji started to sweat, debating how to apologize, but then Bokuto smiled, soft but there, and patted the chair next to him.  
“You came back,” Bokuto said.   
“I did.” They ate in a silence less uncomfortable than Keiji had imagined.  
“I’ve thought about what you told me yesterday, in the park,” Bokuto said. Keii’s grip around the chopsticks tightened.  
“It’s so hard to lose someone. But somehow, change and loss is part of living,” Bokuto continued.   
“Bokuto-san, where are you going with this?”  
“Flowers wither, people die, and one day the universe will explode!” Bokuto’s words seemed somewhat harsh but his gaze glided like silk over Keiji’s cheek, comforting him. “Don’t you think that things ending makes them more special?”  
Bokuto’s strange thought process led to places Keiji could never find to on his own. “I think it’s not explosion, but actually heat death,” Keiji said.  
Bokuto’s smile turned into something more sure-footed. “So does this mean I win, Akaashi?”  
“I guess.”  
Bokuto put his arm around Keijis shoulders. Keiji cleared his throat. “Bokuto-san, how would you like to visit my home?”

_Entering the flower shop is like stepping into paradise: potted ferns and ivy, bonsais, all kinds of cut flowers in vases- camellias, tulips, carnations, lilies, roses._  
_“Ah, Keiji,” his mother says, looking up from her working table where she arranges flowers, her motions flow, swift and skillful, from years of practice, “you’re up early.” She walks around the table, presses a kiss on his head. “Happy tenth birthday, dear.”_  
_“Thank you, Okaa-san.” Keiji sits down on his chair at the table. “What are you arranging?”_  
_His mother points to a dark purple blossom. “Pansy- thoughtful, caring,” she turns the bouquet, revealing bright pink and small, white flowers, “ Azalea means modest, patient, and Jasmine friendly, graceful. And then there is forget-me-not.” These star-shaped blossoms glow azure._  
_“True love.” She smiles and hands him the bouquet._  
_Keiji spins it, marveling at the medley of scent and color. “What does it mean?”_  
_“Ikebana is about expressing our relationship to the universe, without and within. About connecting nature, the cosmic order-”, she gestures out the window, the cloudy December sky, the galaxies hidden beyond, “to your own feelings.” She taps Keiji’s chest, above his heart. “This bouquet- it’s a floral representation of who you are, to me.”_  
_Keiji cradles the flowers to his chest, and smiles._

  
“Wow, you do live in a mansion after all!”  
Keiji snorted. Bokuto looked at him with something akin to pleasant surprise, maybe wonder.   
“That is definitely a hyperbole,” Keiji said.   
“What is hyperbole?”  
“An exaggeration.”   
“Oh.” Bokuto had discovered the family altar. Keiji stiffened.  
“Why is there no picture of your mom?” There it was, the inevitable question.   
“To be honest with you… my father and I have lived in denial ever since she died.”   
“Oh,” Bokuto said again, “does it make it hurt less?”  
Keiji breathed in sharply. “I am not sure. No, I don’t think so.”  
“Akaashi,” Bokuto said, prying Keiji’s fiddling fingers apart, interlacing their hands.   
“It’s a nervous habit,” Keiji explained, “I do it whenever I am- emotionally upset.”  
Bokuto smiled, not the one splitting his face in half, but something softer, something Keiji didn’t want to risk naming affectionate. “I know, ‘kaashi. Did you think I didn’t notice?”  
“Yes.”  
“Give me some credit, man. I am not blind.”  
That’s what Keiji was afraid of. He gently untangled their hands, dissolving the poignant moment. Bokuto had walked to his room. “You’re way messier than I thought!” Keiji allowed himself a secret smile. He wondered if this moment was one of those Bokuto had mentioned to Tsukishima back at the training camp. Keiji’s smile dissolved.   
If not volleyball, what on earth was he getting hooked on?

That day, long after Bokuto had left and Keiji had returned from the graveyard, he lifted the framed photograph from the forbidden drawer. His breath caught as he looked at his mother’s smile behind the glass separating them. Gently, he placed it next to the Tatarinow’s aster, remembrance, on the family altar where she had always belonged.  
Keiji was reading the book on Hanakotoba, a gift from his mother, as he heard his father’s voice. “What the- Keiji!” He had rarely heard his father this angry.   
Keiji stepped into the corridor. “What is it?”, he asked, keeping his voice neutral.  
“How could you.” His father’s whisper sliced through the air like a sharp knife. “Was this Koutarou’s idea?” A storm raged in his eyes.   
“She deserves better than us pretending she didn’t exist.” Keiji expected his father to stand statuesque, perhaps walk away, anything but breaking down in front of the altar. His face was hidden in his hands, shoulders shaking like a twig ripped at by gales.   
He couldn’t be crying. Keiji had never seen him cry.  
“She is gone, really gone,” his father whimpered.  
“Otou-san,” Keiji said, horrified. Quiet and quick, he went back into his room, closing the door.

  
Keiji found Bokuto before morning practice. He was practicing serves, not noticing Keiji’s presence just yet. Keiji enjoyed watching him, his charm another kind when he was on the court.   
“Bokuto-san,” he called out softly. It was time.   
Bokuto's expression brightened. Something lovely but fragile welled up in Keiji’s chest. “Have I ever told you that I could have gone to Suzumeoka High School?”  
Bokuto shook his head.   
“I saw you, playing. It impressed me immensely.” Keiji took a deep breath, looking everywhere but at him. “You’re the reason I found my passion for volleyball. You’re not just an ace, you are a star player, and I-” Keiji wasn’t shocked but still frightened out of his mind when he realized what his words were morphing into, what shape they were drawing, for Bokuto to see in plain sight. _This is a confession_ , Keiji thought, and then, _fuck_.  
Bokuto was so much closer now. Keiji knew what would happen, and he didn’t stop it, _please, just once_ \-   
Bokuto’s lips, petal-soft, Keiji tasted mint, and summer sunshine- and _oh_ , Bokuto’s hands, rough skin, but so careful, so gentle, cradling Keiji’s face, and Keiji ached, ached, because- this couldn’t last. _I can’t afford being in love_. And what he had feared and hoped for was true, so he pushed weakly at Bokuto’s chest. It had to be done. Bokuto let go of him immediately, and Keiji yearned for his touch as soon as it was gone. Wide-eyed and panting, they stared at each other. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” Keiji said, failing to hide the tremor in his voice. The confusion and then, the hurt in Bokuto’s eyes made him ache all over again. “I was only- only stating my admiration for you as a player. I am not- I can’t-”  
“It’s okay, Akaashi. I understand.” Bokuto’s weak smile didn’t reach his eyes.  
The ocean within Keiji froze. There were no tears, just numbness. “I’m sorry.”  
Bokuto turned, back slumped as he walked away, leaving Keiji to himself on the empty court that suddenly seemed too large for Keiji alone.   
Without Bokuto’s light, Keiji knew his life would once again turn into a starless winter night.

Bokuto’s mother called Keiji. She was crying, and in between her voice breaking, Keiji could make out the words “car accident”.

Keiji stood in front of the door in the hospital like it was the gate to hell.   
“Are you going in there or not?”, a nurse asked impatiently.   
“I am.”  
The nurse waved at him, _hurry_.  
Bokuto’s mother sat next to her son. Bokuto was curled up in white sheets, his skin almost as pale, asleep.   
The nurse poked his arm to draw blood. Watching it flow dark red made Keiji queasy.  
“He’s recovering from the surgery,” Bokuto’s mother said. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “I have to go to the bathroom. Will you stay with him?”  
Keiji nodded, sure now.   
“You could have died,” Keiji whispered to Bokuto. He gripped his limp hand as tightly as one would a lifeline. “Bokuto-san… I went to my mother’s grave after you left that day, for the first time since the funeral. I had expected to see the cherry tree over the tombstone in full bloom, but it wasn’t. There was a single Red Spider Lily on her grave- they mean lost memory. Abandonment.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “The engraving says ‘if the sun has set, no candle can replace it.’ And today, I almost lost you for good.” Keiji stroked Bokuto’s hand. “I lied to you. I am in love with you, so in love with you. I wanted to be safe, rather than happy. But now I understand. Life is too short to keep living in fear.” Bokuto blinked his eyes open. “Keiji,” he said, still delirious from the anaesthetic, “did you mean that?” Keiji was stunned for a moment- then he threw himself at Bokuto, disregarding all caution. He hugged him like he had never hugged someone before, wrapped around him like a vine. “Of course,” Keiji mumbled into Bokuto’s neck, “all of it.”   
“Oops, bad timing,” Sarukui said. Keiji hadn’t heard the door open but now there they were, all their teammates and managers, and Bokuto’s sisters, too. “Or perfect timing,” Konoha said, “glad to see you made up.” Heat rose to Keiji’s face, and Bokuto blushed, too- it made him look endearingly abashed, and gloriously alive. 

  
Keiji went to the grave. His father wanted to meet him there.   
The cherry tree’s slender branches were ornamented with blossoms, blush, delicate lace. Keiji’s father stood next to it.   
“Otou-san?” Keiji clutched his bag to his chest protectively.   
His father stepped aside, revealing the tombstone. Next to their names, in red, still in red, was a new engraving: ‘Though sorrow may impede my heart, it is of great love to have known you.’  
When Keiji looked up, his father smiled at him faintly, for the first time in years. Keiji sighed in long-awaited relief, and hugged him.   
“I have something as well.” Keiji took a small, potted daisy out of his bag. His father stared at it as if it was a floral mirage. Keiji put it next to the tombstone.   
“I miss you terribly, Okaa-san,” Keiji whispered to her only, “but now, I am ready.”  
As the sun slowly revealed itself behind clouds, father and son stood and prayed together beneath the cherry tree in full bloom. 

> **“Peel the scars from off my back // I don’t need them anymore.”**  
>  \- “Welcome, Home, Son” by Radical Face

  
“Here,” Keiji said to Bokuto, a little breathless, “this is for you, Kou.” He gently handed Bokuto the bouquet.  
“Hydrangea means pride, Sunflowers - radiance, Honeysuckle - generosity, Edelweiss- courage, power,” Keiji said, “and then there are cherry blossoms and red roses.” Keiji took a deep breath, looked up. Bokuto’s eyes were luminous, glowing amber. His knowing smile showed that Keiji didn’t need to explain in words.   
“Thank you, Keiji.” They kissed, and this time, Keiji lingered close, pressing their foreheads together.  
The flowers would soon wither. But now they were blooming, and despite, or maybe because of, their impermanence, the roses’ thorns, they were precious, and beyond that, beautiful.

> **“But don’t you think [...] that it’s better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just okay your whole life?”**  
>  \- Clare, “The Time Traveler’s Wife” by Audrey Niffeneger

**Author's Note:**

> The engravings on the tombstone are quotes:
> 
> “When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”- George R.R. Martin
> 
> “Though sorrow may impede my heart, it is of great love to have known you.” - C. Elizabeth
> 
> My intention in writing this fic was to befriend the impermanence of everything a little more. I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Nothing lasts, so let's have a good time and love. 
> 
> Kudos and constructive feedback are appreciated, as always!


End file.
